Page 12 of It Happened in the Highlands
“They’re waiting downstairs while my attendants rouse Barton and prepare him to receive his visitors.”
“Have the Bartons and Lady Jo met?” Wynne asked, entertaining the idea that maybe the families were acquainted.
“I thought I’d wait on that. I’d like them to meet in the ward itself, at Barton’s bedside,” the doctor told him. “The experience of unexpectedly seeing them all at once might shock him and possibly create a positive reaction in him. I was reading a paper about it that Dr. Ellis, down in West Yorkshire, wrote regarding . . .”
As Dermot shared the details of the study, Wynne tried to imagine the Bartons’ reaction to the patient’s improvement. The last time the family had seen him was the day they brought him to the Abbey. They thought his death was imminent.
“Even if the meeting produces nothing,” Dermot concluded, “I don’t want to miss the opportunity.”
Several arguments came to mind opposing the doctor’s enthusiasm, the most logical one being that Jo and the Bartons knew each other. Such knowledge of one another might also explain why the two parties arrived at the Abbey on the same day. But Wynne remained silent on that score, not caring to cast a wet blanket on his friend’s optimism.
“I’ll accompany Charles’s family to the ward. But I need you, my friend, to go to the east wing, drag Lady Josephine from the clutches of my aunt and uncle, and escort her to the patient’s bedside.”
His immediate inclination to protest died before he voiced it. There could be no avoiding Jo. They’d seen each other. She’d asked about him. And she’d decided to stay and see the patient instead of leaving. Wynne already knew he’d regret it if she left and they hadn’t exchanged at least a few words.
Their shared history was dead and buried, he told himself. He no longer carried in his heart the affection, or the feeling of protectiveness, that he once had. What remained now was accepting this opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about her character. He wanted to know how much Jo Pennington had changed, if at all.
* * *
The Squire and Mrs. McKendry glowed more like proud parents than uncle and aunt. Their enthusiasm for the hospital and its director illuminated every word that came from their mouths. And they were quite fond of Captain Melfort as well.
Seated at a table in an antiquated, oak-paneled drawing room, Jo sipped tea and listened to stories involving Wynne and Dr. McKendry during their days in the navy. The tales went far beyond the reports and accolades she’d read about in the newspapers in the early days.
The conversation turned from the past to the hospital and the estate.
“The Abbey would have gone to ruin if it weren’t for their partnership,” the Squire asserted, spooning sweet apple butter onto another thick slice of warm oat bread. “With the exception of King George’s construction of the north annex to house his army during the Rising, no work was done on this place since my grandsire’s day.”
From the little she’d seen of the massive structure, it appeared that a great deal of renovation was currently in progress.
“Our Dermot always knew what he wanted to do with the Abbey—that is, making it into a fine hospital—once his father was gone,” Mrs. McKendry said. “But he could never have done so well without the captain.”
“So right, darling,” her husband agreed. “It was a blessing they both decided at the same time that they were done with their traveling the world.”
“True.” The Squire’s wife nodded, pouring more tea for Jo. “And the captain . . . well, he needed to find a suitable home for Cuffe.”
“Cuffe?” Jo asked.
“His son,” Mrs. McKendry replied, sending a quick glance at her husband.
His son. A pang of disappointment slid into her heart like a needle. She placed her cup and saucer gently on the table. Of course he’d be married, she scolded herself. Time had taken her youthful bloom and left her a spinster. But not so for him. The passing years had not only improved his looks, they’d given him the opportunity to fill the pages of his life with happiness.
“The lad’s mother—” the Squire started.
“He married her,” his wife interrupted. “Cuffe is the captain’s son and heir.”
Jo’s mind returned to the incident, little more than an hour ago, when her carriage had to make a sudden stop on the lane leading out of the village. A young dark-skinned boy was standing beside Wynne, and she wondered now if this was the son they spoke of.
“The lad’s mother died giving birth in the Indies,” Mrs. McKendry confided in a low voice. “Cuffe was raised by his Jamaican grandmother until just two months ago, with the captain paying for everything. She must have saved enough money, because suddenly she didn’t know how to control him any longer.”
Perhaps it was because gossip had been the bane of her own existence, Jo bristled instinctively. She had no right to be hearing this. She was no more than a stranger to these people.
“The lad must get his wildness from his mother, for Captain Melfort is the most disciplined of gentlemen.”
“How old did you say Cuffe was?” Jo asked, interrupting her host.
“Ten years old.”
“Before we lay blame on a mother who is no longer here to defend herself, or a grandmother who has raised him from infancy, I should say that wildness in a lad his age is fairly common. We needn’t attribute it to the nature of a parent, especially one none of us have met,” Jo asserted firmly. “You said Cuffe has only been here for a mere two months. Now imagine how anyone would struggle to adjust to completely new social expectations. And he’s so young. Everything he knew, all of his previous routines, replaced by customs and courtesies that we see as natural, but are actually only naturalto us.”
